“Oh, hey.” I stood. “Are Mom and Dad ready?”
“Almost,” Calum replied, eyeing me with concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I’m just not sleeping very well lately, and. Well…” I couldn’t help it, my eyes welled up with tears.
Why did death have to feel so infinite?
Calum stepped forward, wrapping his arms around me and hugging me. He didn’t say anything at all, didn’t try to ease the ache with words because he knew none of them would suffice. Gramps was gone, and we were grieving his loss—today especially.
I could hear Mom’s heels clicking on the wooden staircase as she and Dad descended. Calum looked over at the doorway. “Time to go,” Mom said, sounding positive, her eyes the only thing to reveal the truth of her grief.
Calum pulled away and bopped my nose. “Come along, Pippy,” he said with a grin. The old nickname drew a reluctant smile from me, and I rolled my eyes at his display, pushing past him to loop my arm through Mom’s.
We walked out through the front door, heading to the SUV. The happiness in Mom’s smile was genuine. “It’s good to have Cal back. I hope he’ll start coming home more now,” she remarked quietly, glancing over her shoulder to the front door. Dad and Calum still hadn’t walked through it yet, and no shouting was detected. Shockingly, they were getting along or as along as the two of them could get.
“I think he will,” I said, clearing my throat a little and refocusing my attention on opening the rear passenger door of my parents’ SUV.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Connor
The funeral homeseemed overburdened with the number of townsfolk in it. The main room was so full that guests had started finding seats in the other rooms off to the side, watching and listening to the service projected onto the television.
Two rows had been reserved for family and close family friends. Mom, Dad, myself, and Calum all sat in the first pew. Dare, his mom, Evan, and his parents sat behind us.
I hadn’t been to many funerals before—just Nan’s, really—and I’d been a lot smaller then. So many people were already there by the time we arrived, so many people who pulled us aside on our way in to give their condolences. It was going to be an endlessly long day, with sorrow edging each moment.
Sorrow-edged moments were not my specialty. After growing up in a house with my father and Calum, and their explosive and reactive natures, I worked extra hard to make sure the people around me weren’t in conflict or upset. That things felt harmonious.
Emotions in our household were already heightened by the grief we all felt over the loss of Gramps—even Dad. Although things weren’t always perfectly kosher between the two of them, my father had looked up to and respected Gramps, even if he’d been jealous that Calum and I had bonded with Gramps the way we had over music.
As I listened to the stories shared about Gramps and the incredible life he’d led, tears streaked freely down my face. Each story was more entertaining than the last.
I missed Gramps so much already, missed his advice and his calm and steady nature. I missed how he accepted everyone, offering them kindness and love instead of judgement or ridicule. Offering a hand when someone needed help, a joke when someone needed a laugh. He was the kind of man who believed the more kindness you put into the world, the more goodness you would find in it.
It was Ted Watson’s story that got to me harder than any of the others. Ted was Gramps’s last living friend, and they’d known each other for over sixty years. He spoke of how much volunteer work my grandfather had always done for the community, and how it had inspired him and his wife to do more for theirs.
“I suppose the lesson is, we should all aspire to be more like Frank Murphy. That is the greatest way to honour his memory, and this community,” Ted had finished, his words taking up space in my heart.
To be more like Gramps would be an honour. He’d been a shining beacon in our lives, teaching us how to express ourselves through music. Offering that gift to other people who needed a bridge. I wanted to continue that legacy somehow.
Once Ted finished his reading, Mom went up and shared stories about being raised by him. She spoke about how he was the first person she would call, whenever she needed guidance about anything at all, because he gave the best advice.
That was one of the things I would miss most about Gramps—his consultation. Now, the thought of telling my father my plans struck a deeper fear and uncertainty than before. At least with Gramps in the background, I could draw strength from knowing he supported me.
After Mom finished, it was Calum’s turn—another speech that brought tears streaming down my cheeks. Mom had asked if I wanted to speak, but I was terrified my grief would overlap my filter. I was far too emotional to keep my composure.
Once the funeral service was over, we made our way to the cemetery for the burial. The weather was as cold and grey as my spirit. It was remarkable how numb I could feel whilst laden with grief.
My heels sank into the soft earth as I stood for the burial ceremony. It had been raining on and off all day, little spits of icy water droplets that were almost snow flurries.
More words were said by the funeral director as they lowered the casket into the ground, then we were told to step forward and drop clumps of dirt on it. My parents went first, grabbing fistfuls together. Mom sobbed when the dirt hit the casket with an audible thud. She turned her face toward Dad’s chest as Calum and I stepped forward.
I broke up the dirt in my hand, with tears streaming down my face, before I let it drop. I stepped back blindly, gasping at the finality of it. The cold chill of grief made it sting like a million little knives with each breath.
Hearing my despair, Calum wrapped his arm around me, supporting me before my shaking knees gave out. On his left stood Dare, eyeing me with concern. I refused to meet his gaze though.
My grief was heavy, and I worried I wouldn’t be able to keep it together if he touched me. I worried he’d undo what fragile hold I had on myself, and it would all tumble out at my feet.
